


Quaint mirrors and perspectives

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family Fluff, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Kid Fic, Light Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: After a visit to the family at Midculter, Francis notices his daughter is upset about something. He resolves to find out what's wrong and to cheer her up on the ride home.
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Philippa Somerville
Kudos: 9





	Quaint mirrors and perspectives

One wing of the family clustered at the top of the stone steps, facing into the swirling, playful spring wind. The other group gathered around their horses, checking girths and saddlebags, ensuring that nothing and no one had been left behind. Philippa was already mounted on the stout-boned cob she favoured, the blue veil of her headdress caught by the breeze and returning the waves of Sibylla, Richard and his family. She watched her husband pace between the other mounts like the commander of armies he had been, arraying his troops.

Francis stroked the flanks of horses and the heads of children as he circled them. His fine, long hands, yellow-pale from the chill air, closed flapping buckles and tightened cords on caps and sleeves.

Without need of Francis's help, Kuzúm mounted with a bound, swinging his long, silk-hosed leg over the back of his horse and looking up to smile with immediate pride at Sibylla. His close-cropped golden hair shone like an August stubble field, and Philippa sighed at the girlish sweep of his nose and his round cheeks. He looked more like his mother than his father, and it made her rue that girl's fate - Kuzúm fast approached the age at which she had died.

Still Philippa would always think of him as hers, even though his background grew clearer each day, so she could no longer even imagine he was Francis's. And despite it all - the stop and start of family life - stolen and replaced, saved, abandoned and saved again - he was a sweet boy, retiring and soft-spoken, if sometimes uncertain. He was, without fault, kind to the other children, and he worked diligently to master interests that did not always come easily to him. He had a place in their family that would never be taken from him.

Francis now hoisted their eldest, Diccon, to his saddle and checked his stirrups and spurs, a hand on his son's knee as he spoke smilingly up to him. Their ash blond hair was pushed across their pale brows by the wind and for a moment Philippa thought they made a strange mirror of one another: Francis's innocent smile and Diccon's small frown of concentration. Both turned to her suddenly, and she knew she was being spoken of when grins flashed beneath round brown eyes and heavy-lidded blue alike.

Next, Francis turned to the smallest, Gideon, who was only just out of his dresses and sat on the grass plucking at the new breeches his Auntie Mariotta had stitched for him. Francis offered him an open palm and Gideon took it with two greedy hands, pulling himself to his feet with the unsteady, ungainly slowness of the very old and the very young. His father walked him patiently to his own pony and raised him, his feet cycling in the air, up above the saddle and down. Here, Francis took extra care arranging the small boy's hands on the reins, settling his feet in the stirrups and securing the padded cap on his head. He brought Gideon's pony to Philippa and passed the lead-rein to her hands.

"How is she?" Philippa nodded her chin at the last of their party, the girl Sibyl, who stood despondent and shy by her own steed.

"She'll ride with me," Francis told her.

The worry in his voice was a subtle, thrumming thing, but Philippa heard it and felt it wound her own heart as surely as Sibyl's mood wounded Francis. She stroked his cheek and he raised his face to her. "It's probably nothing, my dear. You know how hurt she is when the cat won't play with her or the ducks aren't on the pond as they should be. The ride will soon bring her cheer."

Francis smiled for her, but his eyes did not seem to believe the gesture of his lips. "We shall see."

Philippa bent to kiss him, a lingering thing that said all it ever needed to:  come home quickly, come home safely. I love you . Riding together or apart, it always meant the same thing: it was a silent vow they renewed on every journey. Francis's cold hands, one covering her own fingers, the other on her cheek, slipping behind hair and headdress and collar, tightened in response.

She watched him walk back to Sibyl, drawing himself into a heroic swagger for her sake: sapphire hose and feathered cap gleaming beneath the bright sky, arms swinging before he brought his palms together to rouse enthusiasm.

Their daughter had been thoughtful and silent all morning, drawn inward and disinterested in all but when they were going home. Philippa was inclined to let her have her space, suspecting a minor disappointment that could be aired more comfortably at home. But Francis could not tolerate these quiet phases: they made anxiety itch across his thoughts, they made him impatient with the need to find out what must be done, how it could be helped. He would cheer Sibyl on the ride or Philippa would have to deal with them both on the homecoming.

* * *

Francis returned to where Sibyl waited with her pony, her fingers toying among the clumps of its messy mane. She summoned a bonny smile for him, dimples punctuating her smooth cheeks, but the effort to dispel her wistful mood could not fool her father. Too well did he know that expression.

Better practiced at hiding his unease, Francis returned her smile and gave her pony's white blaze a stroke. "Shall you leave your palfreye and lepe vpon a stede covered in maile, lady?"

Sibyl looked up at her father's mount and her eyes went round. "Can I ride her, Da? Really?"

"If you'll consent for me to ride pillion - I don't think your young Djinn would appreciate taking my grand heft in return."

Sibyll nodded solemnly up at him, but a new sparkle of excitement had entered into her eyes. She hoisted her golden skirts and scampered over to Francis's mare, a long-legged dark bay who had to curve her proud neck and lower her nose to let the girl stroke it. Podargos had a velveteen muzzle, pink as Sibyl's round cheeks, and it wrinkled inquisitively at her touch.

Kuzúm took Djinn's reins from the man who had raised him, who had saved him, and he smiled at Francis's word of gratitude.

Francis arranged a roll of cloth across the pommel of Podargos's saddle and set Sibyl upon it, her heels kicking at the air above the animal's shoulder blades. He pulled himself up afterwards with leather squeaking and buckles jangling and called to Philippa to ride on. He wrapped his arms protectively about his daughter's body and smiled at the feeling of her head rocking against his chest.

In front of them Kuzúm and Diccon rode side-by-side, chatting in their high, melodious voices. Sibyl held the reins in her small fists and looked about herself in the early part of the journey, searching for the source of birdsong in hedgerows and trees, chattering about the names of the hills they passed and what they meant. Francis answered her questions and contributed to her stories, quietly, contentedly, waiting until her pride allowed her to mention what had been troubling her.

Sibyl at last fell silent as they travelled through a blustery valley, tucking her chin into her fur collar. Francis's long fingers swept around the edges of her bonnet, capturing the stray buttermilk curls that straggled free and pressing them beneath her cap. He hummed a song that was snatched away almost immediately by the wind; Sibyl only really recognised its refrain because of the way the sound vibrated between them, through his sternum and ribs against her back.

Finally, when she thought he might hear her but no one else would, she turned her face up to her father. The underside of his chin glittered with blond stubble in shallow dimple and shadowed hollows.

"Da?"

"Mm?" he said lightly, his lips curving as he bowed to plant a kiss on her upturned forehead.

"I think I did something wrong."

His smile did not falter, and his eyes were the same changeable blue as the sky above. Sibyl knew he could get angry - he got angry with muddy men in their courtyard, with men bearing parchment and messages, with the mention of certain names - like Lennox. When he was angry he went as pale as milk, cold as Jack Frost on the windowpanes. He wasn't angry now, but still she hesitated.

"Tell me, Sibyl sage, I shall not betray your confidence," he spoke softly, his head bent to her, his arms about her, like he was a great tree enfolding her small form, or a bird mantling protectively over its nest. Beneath them, Podargos glided along in her steady gait, her withers rippling beneath Sibyl's hands, her mane ready for her worrying fingers to wind in.

Sibyl chewed her lip. "I made Mamó unhappy. And Uncle Richard."

He blinked. "I don't believe it," he said, but his voice slipped away in the wind.

She nodded confirmation, her eyes round and very clear blue. "Yes. I did. They were very sad to see me. I saw Mamó cry."

Francis's expression seemed to move beyond his control then, a tingling shock spreading through his features. He looked up at the others riding ahead and reined Podargos to a halt before meeting Sibyl's eyes again. His smile was uneven and he could not hide the slight trembling in his body from her. "Mamó was not sad to see you, daughter. She was full of cheer - it has been so long since our last visit."

"She looked at me and I made her sad," Sibyl asserted. Her lozenge-shaped face was rounded by the white cotton cap, cheeks protruding pink in the wind, freckled nose pale and mouth serious.

He studied her stubborn gaze, the lines at his eyes creasing with rueful emotion. It would not be shut down, this concern of hers, and he must tell her that she had done no wrong. But his jaw worked silently for longer than he intended, and he was sorry to leave her staring up at him, waiting for him to speak some words of relief.

"That was not your fault, my love," Francis swallowed and raised his head to let the wind dry the film on his eyes. He blinked at the group of riders ahead and urged Podargos to move off again, lest the distance between them and the rest of the family grow too great.

His arms tightened on her frame and he scanned the countryside for the words he wanted. "Sibyl, do you know that your Uncle Richard and I once had a sister at home with us?"

She had a clear view of the feeling that tightened and moved in his throat, and the taut notes of his voice made her sombre and reverent. She shook her head and he felt it against his arm and body.

He sighed. "I had two sisters, in fact. But I must tell you about the one who grew up here at Midculter. My bonny baby sister."

He took one hand from the reins and looked down at Sibyl with an expression very similar to the one her Mamó and her Uncle had worn, and she quailed a little with worry until he made his grin broad and tapped her nose with a cold finger. "My little sister Eloise had a wee button nose." He stroked her brow with his thumb. "She was terrible serious. But her laugh was like blackbird song when it was won. And Richard and I competed to win it from her every day."

Sibyl's bow-curved lips pressed into a determined, encouraging smile. There was more he was going to tell her, but his silence now seemed to invite her, wanting to be tested like a deep well wants to be tested - to have its secrets gauged by falling pebbles.

"Eloise is a pretty name," she said quietly.

"Yes," Francis agreed. "When she laughed her cheeks dimpled," he pressed his finger into Sibyl's cheek gently. "And she had blue eyes and yellow hair." He sighed and looked up, and again Sibyl saw him struggle between speech and silence. "She'd cheer the storms off the seas and - " he swallowed whatever else he had been about to say. "And we all miss her very much."

Sibyl leaned against him and released one of her fists from the reins to force her little hand into his. "What happened to her, Da?"

"She died when she was quite young. An accident of war."

It was Sibyl's turn to sigh as Francis bent over her one more, stretching his lips to her forehead. "Your Ma never knew her, nor did Auntie. But Mamó and Richard remember her very well - and I suspect that they remembered her more clearly when they saw you today, my dear."

Sibyl stared ahead, her pensive frown aimed at Podargos's flickering black ears. After a while, she took a deep breath, expanding in her father's hold. "If...if it makes them sad, why don't we colour my hair like you did when you went to the Queen's party?"

Francis's brows flew up and he bit back a disbelieving chuckle: he had not been at the Queen's party with soot in his hair and Spanish fashions on his body. The disguise had been for a different journey entirely. But, he reflected, it was a relief that Sibyl remembered the lie.

"Eloise's loss makes them sad. But your presence brings them joy, Sibyl. Do not confuse the two."

They rode in silence, Francis listening to Sibyl's breath and Sibyl thinking on this new information. Eventually she stretched her face up towards him again, a plea in her eyes.

"Da?"

Francis's heart turned in his chest. He looked at her candid blue eyes and he knew that he would give her anything she asked for, without thought or hesitation.

"Can we go faster?"

A grin blossomed on his face. He drew the reins tight and gripped her close to him. Podargos straightened her neck as she felt her rider adjust his seat: legs lengthening, weight settling. At the softest command she floated, feather-like, into a long-paced canter. Sibyl shrieked with laughing glee, her father wrapped tight about her as they sped past the boys and their mounts, spraying clods of mud in their wake.

Philippa watched them thunder past, Francis's black cloak and lemon-yellow hair whipping in the wind, Sibyl's golden skirts sparkling like a lady's kerchief on her champion's saddle. The melancholy had passed, then. She smiled crookedly at the sight of them slowing and wheeling about at a junction on the road, Podargos's hooves crunching on gravel as she tossed her head. The joyful voice of Philippa and Francis's daughter rippled across the air, mingling with the hard-won sound of Francis's own incautious glee. It sounded, to Philippa, like nothing less than home.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Chaucer, and Francis is paraphrasing _Merlin_. Yes, his horse is named for the man-eating mares of Diomedes. Mamó means grandmother.
> 
> I'm aware I'm kind of handwaving distances here. They probably have a halfway house between Midculter and St Mary's.


End file.
